Fireside
by bamftastik
Summary: One night in camp. Our hero has trouble dealing with silence… also, with words. Alistair vs. Zev


Flames licked along the bright and smoking branches, old and gnarled bark splitting, cracking away. Each time it would send up a fresh shower of sparks, minute and glittering wisps that would die as soon as the wind took them. Far from the fire, their fate would be much the same. She could feel him stir behind her, the strangely soft pressure of his fingertips again sliding along her neck.

With a sigh she leaned into him, pressing hard against his chest as the hands slid lower, working her shoulders now. There they lingered, a pair of fingers tickling along her collar bone. They could leave the fireside, make for the close comfort of the tent, but he would never be the one to ask. She smiled.

His cheek came to rest against her head, gaze following her own as the rhythm of his hands fell away. The largest of the logs was glowing now, the glaring red of charring flame seeming to snake between the splintering cracks as if emanating from the branch itself. The tree was long dead, but angry still.

It did split then, topping beneath the pile with a hissing crack. The echo seemed to redouble in the camp, a grunting roar whipping her head round. Leliana, too, had started, meeting her eyes across the clearing with a sheepish grin. It had only been Oghren, long fallen across the entrance to his tent in a fitful, ale-soaked slumber. True enough, the dwarf's snores were something to be feared, but tonight the camp was too tense, too on-edge. If the dreams hadn't been confirmation enough, they all could feel it now. It was close.

As she turned back to the flames, she could feel Wynne watching them. The old woman knelt beside the hulking war hound, slowly running a bristling comb behind his ears. At rest she seemed, but there was nothing idle in her gaze. It held to her own a moment before breaking into a sad smile, sparing the smallest of nods and she bent to whisper to the beast.

Remembering the old woman's words, she found herself burrowing more tightly against Alistair's chest, sighing even as his laughter ruffled her hair.

"You know I almost envy him. Why do I never get to be drunk?"

Turning round, she tilted her head to gaze up at him, saw the glint in his eyes as he looked back toward the sleeping dwarf. Somehow the reflection of the flames made him look all the more impish, but that light would be there even without the glare. Still he was easy to laugh, easy to smile, even here. If they could come out of this… if _that_ could be preserved… she could almost count their victory complete.

Laying a cheek against his chest, she breathed deep. "I'm sure he'd be willing to share. Just don't expect me to be sleeping anywhere near you when you start smelling like that."

The chuckle came rumbling deep against her ear. "Well, when you put it like that…. But I suppose we've all got to have… something…." The thought fell away as his lips pressed gently into her hair, arms sliding round to pull her closer still.

It was more than a distraction – they had both said as much – but there were always more words waiting just beyond. "The hard questions" he called them. Better not to speak, better to linger here as long as they could. His thoughts would be echoing her own, she knew, even as his arms tensed around her. All of the desperation, the looming fear, would soon enough fall to awkward silences. Afraid to move forward, afraid to step back.

She stirred against him. "Mmm."

"Something you need, my dear?" His eyes were wide and reflecting still, gazing down in silent expectancy. But the words were flat, dull, revealing nothing of the emotion she saw behind his stiffening smile. What could you say when every word was pain?

"Nothing." Sliding away, she pushed to her feet. Something of that fear flickered then but she bent, smoothing away the errant hairs of his forehead to plant a gentle kiss. "I'll be right back. Want to wash up."

There was open relief there, even as the crooked smile returned. "Would you like some company?"

Again she ran her fingers through those deep gold strands, tugging just enough to set him to blushing. He was getting bolder, but not that bold. "I'll be back. I promise."

The little stream ran just beyond Master Bodhan's wagons, near enough to fill their pots, but far enough away to provide some sense of privacy. The old dwarf and his son would be already tucked beneath the canvas, but it wasn't long before she sensed eyes on her back.

The big man hadn't made a sound, hadn't moved from the log where he sat bent over his blade, but he followed her progress with a distant, studying gaze. No one could stare like the Quanari.

"Sten."

"Warden."

One hand slipped along the curve of his blade, folding the polishing rag to catch a clean corner. Still his eyes did not leave her face, asking nothing, giving less.

Only a few steps beyond him, the glint of crystal was visible beneath the dappled canopy. Shale stood unmoving, face blank and still beneath the paling moon. She could not tell which of them was more stiff. Caught between a rock and a harder place.

With a shake of her head, she turned and made her way into the shadows beyond the camp. Even in the stillness there had been sound, warm and familiar: Oghren's snores, the gentle whisk of Sten's whetstone, the mabari's contented whine. Here, though, it was chill. Each rustle of leaf and branch promised whispers of the unseen, stirring those thoughts that ever waited on the edge of light. She paused, almost turning back, the memory of his arms, his soft laughter overpowering. Just a wash, a quick wash, nothing to fear here. She was a Grey Warden, after all.

The brook rushed ahead, bubbling just beyond sight, but there was none of the gaiety of its daytime babble. Almost silent it flowed, the quiet too heavy, too still. She almost didn't hear the splash.

Of course. Of course he would be here.

Zevran pulled himself onto the bank with an easy grin, fingers knotting to ring the wet from his long and wild hair. Still it dripped across him, rivulets flowing low and lower still, tracing every curve of sinuous muscle. Save for the wet, the spiraling tattoos, the elf wore only moonlight. Yet he straightened unabashed, raising his arms into a lingering stretch.

"Ahh. Good evening, Warden."

"Zevran." She could feel herself stiffen, but still she met his eyes.

The grin only widened. "Something troubles you?"

"No, I—" She did turn away then, too quick she knew.

He laughed. "Come, it is nothing you have not seen before." He moved closer, close enough to see the red coming hot and fast to her cheeks. With a tilt of his head, he traced a finger there. "I see our templar is rubbing off on you. It is not unpretty."

Steeling herself, she met his eyes, shrugging the hand away. "Zev…"

"Yes?"

"That was before—"

"—Before you fell for the innocent and noble act. This I know."

"It's not an act."

"No." He smirked. "But I do not know if this makes it less tragic, or more."

"For me or for you?"

"Ahh." He shrugged, then, stepping back into an exaggerated bow. "I have respected your wishes. I shall cherish our night together, Warden, but you have made your choice clear. A true warrior knows when he is bested."

"You're not a warrior."

His grin was vicious. Still he moved away, bending to the garments piled at the creek side. The movements were slow, deliberate, but soon enough the breeches were fastened, hanging just below the line of his hips.

"Why are you still here, Zevran?"

Tucking the remaining gear beneath his arm, he made his way back up the bank. "I am your man, pledged until you have no further use of me."

"And if I were to release you? Tonight?"

"Dear Warden! What would Alistair think?"

"I'm serious."

His expression darkened, deeper than the dappled shadows of the wood beyond. "Then I would think you even more naïve than your Alistair. There is still a Blight to stop, yes?"

"And that's why you stay?"

He closed the gap between them, the still damp skin of his chest prickling in the night's air. There was nothing playful there now, the words coming whispered, heavy. "Such bliss cannot last forever. Soon enough it will come. And my chances will be better if I face it at your side."

She pressed her eyes closed; she couldn't help it. Her knees wanted to buckle, to let the world spin away. The hand on her arm, though, was gentle, barely hesitant. She found herself meeting haunted eyes, true concern chasing away any hint of mockery.

"You have had the dreams?"

She turned away.

"They are worse now, yes?"

Shrugging from beneath the arm, she moved to the water's edge. "I'd like some privacy."

Still he held her pinned beneath that gaze, the hurt lingering. After a time, he sighed. "And you shall have it. But know this, Warden: I am your man, through this and through the end, whether you will have me of no."

Shadow to shadow, he was gone.

She crouched for a time, knees to her chest in the spot where his clothes had lay. Still the grass was bent, flattened beneath swift and silent feet. After a time, she grew chill. Gathering herself, the pieces threatening to splinter and spill by the waterside, she made her way back to camp.

Still he sat, tall and broad shouldered, regal in the warm and bronzing glow of the campfire. Hot as flame, it seemed but a candle beside the sun.

Alistair grinned up at her, easy, eager, nothing roiling, plotting, scheming beneath. The expressions were so alike and yet so different. Folding her legs beneath her, she slipped into his lap, the gesture already familiar, the fit perfect.

He had taken to stroking her hair before she even settled. She knew the feeling, tiny touches coming again and again, anything to remind themselves that the other was indeed real.

His brow, though, had drawn low. "You're not wet."

She shook her head, nuzzling into his chest.

"Did you decide you wanted help after all?"

"Maybe." Curling round, she turned again to the flames. "For now, though… let's just… stay…"


End file.
